The Healing Profession
by LouiseKurylo
Summary: Friendship and caring aren't always about the big things. Sometimes help with the little things that are hardest for a friend are the most meaningful.


**The Healing Profession**

(After "Cackle Bladder Blood," S3,E2)

Lisbon stood by the couch, looking down at the sleeping Patrick Jane. It was early, just 7:30 am. No one else was in the office. The HVAC was under repair and the building was stuffy. Before falling asleep the previous night, Jane had taken off his suit jacket and vest and laid them on the back of the couch. He had turned over while sleeping and his shirt was stretched tight across his chest. She could see the corrugation of ribs through the cotton fabric. Her eyes went to his belt buckle and she noted it was fastened a notch tighter.

A few weeks earlier her team had dinner at O'Malley's, one of their favorite restaurants. Slightly buzzed from the beer, Lisbon sat back, content to let the conversation ebb and flow around her. She made a point of going out with them all a few times each month to keep tabs on how her team was doing, individually as well as a group. Her mind drifted to the past.

Her mother died in a car crash caused by a drunk driver when Lisbon was 12. Lisbon grew up the only female in a house of males–her father and her three younger brothers. She accumulated years of practice in reading individuals and the interactions between them, especially men who weren't always articulate, talking often being the least important way her family communicated. Lisbon had stepped up to taking care of everyone, making things right, fixing problems in her family. As bad as it was when her father drank, she knew the foster care system would be worse and would likely split up the kids. She was adept at reading her father and kept her brothers out of harm's way when he drank.

Even in the present, Lisbon found dealing with men easier. She preferred them to her own gender, which so often was afflicted with unnecessary drama. She usually found men straightforward, even simple, to handle which partly explained her presence and success in the male-dominated field of law enforcement.

Jane was a shock. He didn't fit any of the familiar patterns. Instead he presented layer upon layer of complexity and subtlety. He had impressive skills in staples of the con trade–lying, misdirection, sleight of hand, magic, card tricks, and picking locks and pockets. As she gradually learned, those entertaining but insubstantial skills obscured far more extraordinary abilities: A laceratingly sharp mind, unparalleled memory, an almost (she smiled to herself) psychic talent for reading people, and an uncanny knack for picking up the definitive details that solved puzzles. He had enough tics for several people-gun-shy, afraid of doctors, overly fearful of physical pain, and absolutely intolerant of being bullied, manipulated, or confined. His personal history took him from the poor, insular carny world to the glitter and wealth of show biz and now into law enforcement. He was comfortable in any stratum of society, from homeless to wealthy. Jane coupled a brilliant, supple mind with people skills a magnitude greater than those of anyone else she knew, herself included. If that weren't enough, he was constantly changing, as the painful, slow process of healing from his family's murder caused him to gradually re‑create himself, complete with new values and a self-assumed obligation to rid the world of Red John. However infuriating she found him on occasion, he was never boring, never predictable.

Refocusing on the present, Lisbon sensed a dissonant thread in the group. Something about Jane was 'off' that night. Though engaged with the group, relaxed and affable, he was more subdued than usual. She noticed he wasn't eating much. Surprised, she realized the problem wasn't psychological for once, but physical: He just wasn't feeling well. Growing up, Jane had traveled the Midwest carnival circuit. In the process, he was exposed to half of the country's germ pool and consequently rarely got sick. This was new. Lisbon decided to let things unfold for awhile.

A few weeks after O'Malley's, enough time had passed for Lisbon to know a real problem existed and it wasn't going away. She was determined to tackle it today. Lisbon bent over Jane and shook his shoulder. "Jane, wake up. Jane. We have to meet with the victim's family this morning."

Jane blinked and stretched. Yawning, he said, "Give me ten minutes and I'll be ready to go." He grabbed his toiletry kit and walked to the men's room. He was ready after using the facilities, brushing his teeth, shaving with an electric razor and splashing water on his face. Despite sleeping in his clothes, the expensive material readily shed wrinkles and he looked presentable. He returned his kit to his desk drawer and stopped by Lisbon's office.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yes. I didn't have time to eat, so I want to stop at that breakfast place you like."

"Sure, if there's time."

The restaurant was half-filled. Lisbon ordered pancakes, a side of scrambled eggs and coffee. Jane ordered tea and toast. The food was served shortly and they busied themselves with eating. They talked about the case and CBI business during the meal. Lisbon finished most of her food and pushed the plates away. Jane pushed his plate away after eating some toast.

"When do we have to be there, anyhow? It's what, a 45 minute drive?" he asked.

"Not till 10 o'clock. We have over an hour."

"Why are we so early?"

"I wanted time for breakfast. Also, time to talk."

"About?"

Lisbon glanced at Jane then away, knowing the conversation would be contentious. She sipped her coffee then looked at him and held his gaze. "You."

Jane leaned back and tilted his head to the side. "Care to elaborate?" His expression was carefully neutral.

"Jane, this is your favorite breakfast place. You ordered toast and ate half of one slice. You didn't even mooch any of my scrambled eggs. Something is wrong. I'd like you to tell me what."

"I'm just not hungry. So what?"

"So it's not believable. I worked late yesterday. You had a PB&J sandwich last night after turning down dinner with the other three. I woke you this morning so I know you didn't eat anything. Normally, you and Rigsby have a four-hour window before you get so hungry you're distracted from work."

"Maybe I have an upset stomach."

"And now you're dodging. 'Maybe.' Weasel word. I'm responsible for my team's well‑being and effectiveness. You haven't been feeling well for a month. Talk to me."

Jane pressed his lips together and looked away. "Excuse me. This is my personal business. I don't need a nanny."

"Not a nanny, a friend. Also, it affects work. You've been ducking going out with the team. They'll react as though you're distancing yourself. And you're going to miss things on cases if you're not feeling well."

"Now you're exaggerating. Pure speculation."

Lisbon clenched her jaw. Doggedly, "Jane, in the last month you've lost-what?–ten pounds that you didn't have to lose."

"You don't know that."

"I know you're buckling your belt tighter. You _have_ lost weight. If you're not feeling well, go see a doctor and get it fixed."

"Or not," he replied, too quickly.

She paused, breaking the flow of the argument. "What's that mean? Have you been to a doctor?" Worry surged as she briefly wondered whether a doctor had already diagnosed something serious.

He ran his hand through his hair in annoyance. "No. I just mean doctors don't always have answers."

Lisbon leaned back and took in his body language as well as expression. After a moment, she responded. "Jane, I understand you don't like seeing doctors. No one does. But if you have a medical problem, what's the alternative–folk medicine? Psychic healing?" She felt a twinge of guilt for her unfair jab.

Jane closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his hand. "It's a cliche to say 'medicine is as much art as science.' Doctors don't always know what they're talking about. They snow patients with their specialized knowledge. That keeps it from being an honest conversation."

"I don't like taking someone's word on important matters either. But, Jane, a doctor isn't an adversary. It's their job to help you."

He sighed. "You're affluent, educated, and do respected work. Yet you still find dealing with doctors hard. That goes double if you have little money, education or respect, like a carny. My mother was treated for leukemia when I was ten. I don't know if she got good care. I do know the doctors lied to her and she died. Try dealing with the medical field when you're ten. You're invisible." He sipped his tea and looked away, obviously upset.

Lisbon paused, then said quietly, "Jane, I'm sorry about your mother. You just said you don't know if it was the care. Sometimes doctors lie to preserve hope, which may be all a patient has left. That's in the past. Today you _are_ affluent, educated and respected. You can hold your own in any situation I know of."

"So?"

"Your experience will be a lot better with the right doctor. I asked around. Dr. Speary is a gastroenterologist recommended as medically excellent and very straightforward. Give him a chance–without the chip on your shoulder. You can't keep losing weight. You shouldn't be feeling sick for weeks on end."

Jane shifted uneasily. He started to reply, but stopped. Finally, he grudgingly acceded, "Okay. I'll go."

"I had his office pencil in a 10 o'clock appointment for you tomorrow. I'll text you the information. Call and see if there's anything special you need to do beforehand."

After a pause, he managed a curt, "Thank you."

They paid the bill and left.

Jane didn't come into CBI the next morning. Lisbon hoped he hadn't talked himself out of keeping the appointment. Jane was seated at her conference table when she returned from a meeting that afternoon.

Lisbon looked at Jane inquiringly. "How'd it go?" she asked sympathetically.

Diffident, Jane shrugged and replied, "Not bad. The appointment was one of the best interactions I've had with doctors–except for emergencies."

"So? Is there a diagnosis?"

"Turns out I have an ulcer."

"Stress?"

"Bacterium. Helicobacter pylori. A couple of Aussies got a Nobel Prize for discovering it causes ulcers."

"How did you pick up the bug?"

"Apparently, half the world's population is infected. In the US, it's passed either among family members, or, by contaminated food and water. Thinking back, eating at that taco stand near the border may have been a really bad idea."

"What's the treatment?"

"A two-week round of antibiotics. I should feel better in a few days. I have a follow-up appointment in a month to verify I'm no longer infected and the ulcer has healed."

"Any thoughts?"

"Y-e-a-h, I guess you get an 'I told you so.' The diagnostic process is fairly interesting and logical. It has a lot in common with our investigations." He snorted, "You'd better sit down for this. Dr. Speary even convinced me to get a primary care physician–an internist."

Lisbon smiled. Gently, "Hey. That sounds wise. Better to know someone you trust and can work with before anything crops up. How will you find an internist?"

"Referral. Speary recommended someone competent with a similar bedside manner. I guess it's a good idea to pay attention to this stuff."

"There's hope for you yet. I'm glad it went well."

He got up to leave, then paused and took half-a-step back into her office. "Thank you, Lisbon."


End file.
